Why We're Playing With Fire
by Arsosah
Summary: With Soda in Vietnam, I needed control - I just never noticed when I started to spin out of it.
1. Draft Letter

**SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM**

 **ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES PHYSICAL EXAMINATION**

 **To**

 _Sodapop Patrick Curtis_

 _731 N Saint Louis Ave_

 _Tulsa OK 74106_

 **You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed forces Physical Examination by reporting at:**

 _ **ASSEMBLY ROOM 3 - 2nd FLOOR FEDERAL OFFICE BLDG.**_

 _ **7520 W 41st**_

 _ **Tulsa, OK 74107**_

(Place of reporting)

* * *

 **On:** February 5th 1968 **At:** 7:00 am 

_James D Fowley  
_

(Member or Clerk of Local Board) **  
**

* * *

 **IMPORTANT NOTICE**

 **(Read Each Paragraph Carefully)**

 **TO ALL REGISTRANTS:**

When you report pursuant for this order you will be forwarded to an Armed Forces Examination Station where it will be determined whether you are qualified for military service under current standards. Upon completion of your examination, you will be returned to the place of reporting designated above. It is possible that you may be retained at the Examining Station for more than 1 day for the purpose of further testing or for medical consultation. You will be furnished transportation, and meals and lodging when necessary, from the place of reporting designated above to the Examining Station and return. Following your examination your local board will mail you a statement issued by the commanding officer of the station showing whether you are qualified for military service under current standards.

If you are employed, you should inform your employer of this order and that the examination is merely to determine whether you are qualified for military service. To protect your right to return to your job, you must report for work as soon as possible after your completion of your examination. You may jeopardize your reemployment rights if you do not report for work at the beginning of your next regularly scheduled working period after you have returned to your place of employment.

 **IF YOU HAVE HAD PREVIOUS MILITARY SERVICE, OR ARE NOW A MEMBER OF THE NATIONAL GUARD OR A RESERVE COMPONENT OF THE ARMED FORCES, BRING EVIDENCE WITH YOU. IF YOU WEAR GLASSES BRING THEM. IF MARRIED, BRING PROOF OF YOUR MARRIAGE. IF YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL OR MENTAL CONDITION WHICH, IN YOUR OPINION, MAY DISQUALIFY YOUR SERVICE IN THE ARMED FORCES, BRING A PHYSICIAN'S CERTIFICATE DESCRIBING THAT CONDITION, IF NOT ALREADY FURNISHED TO YOUR LOCAL BOARD.**

If you are so far from your own Local Board that reporting in compliance with this Order will be a hardship and you desire to report to the Local Board in the area in which you are now located, take this Order and go immediately to that Local Board and make written request for transfer for examination.

 **TO CLASS I-A AND I-A-O REGISTRANTS:**

If you fail to report for examination as directed, you may be declared delinquent and ordered to report for induction into the Armed Forces. You will also be subject to fine and imprisonment under the provisions of the Universal Military Training and Service Act, as amended.

 **TO CLASS I-O REGISTRANTS:**

This examination is given for the purpose of determining whether you are qualified for military service. If you are found qualified, you will be available, in lieu of induction, to be ordered to perform civilian work contributing to the maintenance of the national health, safety or interest. If you fail to report for or to submit to this examination, you will be subject to be ordered to perform civilian work in the same manner as if you had taken the examination and had been found qualified for military service.

* * *

 _I don't own the Outsiders.  
_

 _This is an actual draft letter. I had to do some smaller changes due to the format, and I also changed the names and addresses, of course._

 _Thank you for reading, the story starts in the next chapter :)_


	2. Coffee, Water, Soda

**Why We're Playing with Fire**

 **2\. Coffee, Water, Soda**

 _Ponyboy_

 _I promised to write so here is the first letter. Basic is okay and I have made some friends. It's still a few weeks left until we're leavin but don't ya worry, okay? I will be okay. You and Darry take care of each other and say hi to the guys from me._

 _Sodapop Curtis_

xXx

 _April, 1968_

The red running track lies ahead of me, stretching out around the football field located behind school. The guys in my team talk and laugh beside me, about how hot it is today, maybe too hot for the 5000 meters run, if Coach are crazy making us do this, who they think might win if we'll make it at all because of the heat. I hear my name being mentioned, but instead of protesting, I concentrate and try to block them out, along with everything else that disturbs me- the blazing April sun, the sound of traffic in the distance, my brother. Especially the thoughts of my brother.

Coach places the whistle in his mouth, raising his hand while holding the stopwatch ready in the other. _On your marks._

Everyone goes silent. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my arm, then quickly drop it to my side again, leaning a little forward. It's only practice, but Coach always expects us to take it serious and do our best - missing his start signal is something he won't accept, even if about twelve laps give more than enough time to catch up, if needed.

 _Ready_. I dig my toes down, rise up on my heels a little.

 _Go_. The whistle blows and we're off.

I don't hold back. I push myself to run as fast as I can from the beginning, knowing it will make this a lot more harder to complete, that my stamina will leave me long before the race is over. But I need to pressure myself so hard my legs will ache all evening, need to pressure myself until my lungs are burning, until I almost can't breathe and all I can do after passing the goal is to lie sweaty and exhausted in the grass, gasping for air, my head blank of everything.

It's not about track anymore. It's all about forgetting, if only for a second.

xXx

"Curtis, have a talk?"

I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder while turning around, my legs still burning from lactic acid.

"Yeah, Coach?" I say, not really wanting to speak with him. But if I don't want him to throw me out of the team, I know I have to. He has kicked out guys before, for even less serious matters than a bad attitude.

He waits until the other guys are out of earshot and disappear into the locker room.

"What the hell was that?" he asks then, but he doesn't sound as pissed as I thought he would. I grip the strap of my backpack with one hand, flicker my gaze down at the grass.

"You gonna tell me what happened there?" He points over his shoulder at the tracks. "You used to be my best runner."

"Sorry," I mumble _._

"Sorry don't cut it. You know it ain't all about running fast, especially on a hot day like this. If you want that, you go back to run the shorter distances."

I shake my head mutely, and he continues, " _Tactics_ , Curtis. When college scouts come around, who do you think they will look at? The kid who runs fastest at the start, but don't last to the end of the race? They won't even remember your name if you do like that when they're watching."

"I know. Sorry."

He eyes me critically for a moment, then says, "You still smoke?"

There is no point lying, he has seen me doing it. "Yeah."

"You still want this? Then start to listen to me, and cut down the crap, too, smoking and goddamn fast food. I know boys your age wants hamburgers and Coke every day, but think about chewing down some vegetables from time to time. You need to be in shape, you only have a year left to impress me."

He raises his eyebrows a little, and I think of the pack of Kools in my backpack, that Two-Bit told me he would pick me up after practice, drive us to the DQ for dinner since Darry is working late.

"Yeah, sure."

xXx

I sit on the porch, smoke my second cigarette and pick up the letter from Soda again. It's been in my pocket since I got it three days ago, and I don't know how many times I've read it or just been holding it in my hands.

I smooth it out over my knees, a white paper with his sloppy scrawled words running over it. It's so short it almost says nothing, but I think I can read between the lines. He's unhappy, but he doesn't want me to know it.

Darry wouldn't let me read his letter, making me think Soda is more honest with him. Or maybe he wrote something about me.

Like everything is about me. I will myself to roll my eyes as I stick my hand out to knock off the ash from the tip of the cigarette. At least he's still in the US, not that many miles from here. Still will be for a few weeks. Still will be safe for a while. I know I don't have to worry yet, according to Soda not at all, but shit... he's going to war, and that is all I can think about.

I hear the rumble from an engine, and I fold the letter again, put it back in the back pocket of my jeans as Darry parks the truck on our driveway. I hear him sigh when climbing out and closing the door, approaching me with heavy steps.

"You still up?" he asks, but since I obviously am, I don't think he expects me to answer.

He sits down beside me on the step, and I can feel the smell of beer on him. I want to ask him my own question, what Soda didn't say - a few weeks, but when? - but do I really want to know? If I feel like this now, I don't even dare to imagine how I will feel when he's on the other side of the world.

So instead I say, "Coach wants me to cut down smokin'."

"I've been telling you that for years." Darry chuckles a little, before eyeing me and the cigarette in my hand. "Are you thinking about it?"

"Maybe." I look at the cigarette, too, almost finished by now. "You think I should?"

He smiles, tapping my shoulder with his fist. "At least it would be one less thing for me to worry about."

I try to keep it together, I really do. But then I have to drop the cigarette butt and put the heels of my hands into my eyes. "He's only eighteen," I say, and Darry places his warm hand on the back of my neck.

xXx

 _June 1968_

It's so hot in my room I sleep in just my underwear, no cover, the window next to my bed wide open.

No. That's a lie. I don't sleep, I just toss and turn, telling myself it's the summer heat that makes me so restless. But I know that's a lie, too.

Giving up at 4 am, I rise and go to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me. I open the tap carefully since I don't want to wake up Darry, but maybe he's already awake - I can hear him most of the nights and early mornings, moving around in his room or padding past my door when he thinks I'm asleep. Sometimes I hear him hesitate just outside of it, and then I hold my breath, almost wishing he would come inside and sit on my bedside for a while, to fill some of the empty space in my room. I haven't shared it with Soda for a year, not counting his last night at home when we sat up talking all night, but somehow him being gone is even more present in there.

But I never say anything, and Darry never comes inside.

After drinking some water I go back to my room and dress, tugging on my worn running shoes. Darry promised me new ones, but I told him I didn't want any - these are the ones I need to have. Maybe 'cause it was Soda who gave me the money for them, when I decided to start running the longer distances in the beginning of my junior year.

Soda. I sit down on my chair and rub my eyes. I can't think of him. I'm so scared that he will die, I can't even imagine life without him. I can't imagine losing him so far away from home that he'll never come back. That the last thing he might see is something foreign, that someone who never knew him might take his life for no reason. He didn't even want to go there.

And I asked him not to go, begged him, even when knowing he had no choice.

When the memory of the look in his eyes just then overwhelms me, I get up and walk out to our porch, breathing inside my hands. I need something to calm me down, and find my pack of Kools where I left it on the windowsill yesterday. I glance up at the sky while lighting a cigarette, feeling a pang of guilt toward Darry. But quitting can't be an option, not now, when I have so much else to think about and be afraid of.

It's too early to go out running, but I can't stay here. The house looms behind my back, too quiet and empty - once we used to be five, but it's only two of us left. The thought of losing another one, losing him, makes me choke on the smoke, and I drop the cigarette, let it fall to the floor, the ember flashing red in the semi-dark.

Then I run.

xXx

Darry doesn't say anything about how early I went out when I come home again. I've been running for hours, and I drag myself into the house, plopping down on a kitchen chair while trying to catch my breath. The sweat is dripping down my face and back and armpits, soaking my t-shirt, and Darry puts down his coffee cup to bring me a glass of water.

He places it on the table next to my hand. I reach for it reluctantly, feel the cold surface against my fingertips. Drinking what's in it would feel so good, but it also would mean my head will stop spinning, all the bad thoughts coming back much clearer.

"You shouldn't run when it's this hot," Darry says to me as he sits down again. "It's summer break. I'm sure your coach-"

"You played football in the summer," I interrupt him between my puffs, stretching up from my slouched position, and he gives me a tired smile.

"That was different. I never came home that exhausted."

"I ain't exhausted." I lift the glass and take a sip. Putting it down again, I look at him through the wet bangs falling over my eyes. "I'm okay, Darry."

He doesn't call out on my lie. To say we're not okay is to bring up a topic we don't want to talk about, making it all too real. So he drinks his coffee in silence, and I drink my water, but I know we both think of Soda.

* * *

 _I wasn't satisfied with this story, so I decided to rewrite it. I have changed details (so if you have read this story before, I suggest you to reread it) and made the chapters longer. I'm not sure yet when chapter 3 will be up, and I still have my Curly-story, work and school, but hopefully, hopefully I will manage to update at least every second week._


	3. Dead Can't Write Letters

**Why We're Playing with Fire**

 **3\. Dead Can't Write Letters  
**

 _June 1968_

The lawn mower suddenly makes a strange noise and dies. I wipe my arm over my forehead and frown at it, leaning down to start it up again, but nothing happens. I try again, twice, even kick at it when it continues being totally dead.

 _Shit_. I throw a quick glance over my shoulder at the house, cursing lowly for myself. Mr. Carter is not one of my happiest customers, to say it nicely, and I really don't look forward to knock on his door and tell him his mower doesn't work anymore. But his house lies too far away from my own, I can't go and get ours and be back in time again before he notices.

I guess it's better just do it, to get it over with.

I walk around to the front of the house and up on the porch, rubbing my sweaty hands against my cut off jeans, but before I have the time to knock on the door it opens, and Mr. Carter sticks out his head, glaring hard at me.

"I won't pay you 'til ya done, boy!" he shouts, and I take a step back as spit flies out of his mouth.

"Uh, sorry, Mr. Carter, but the mower broke down." I try to look apologetic, but his eyes narrow even more.

"And why don't ya fix it, then? Why you just standin' here?"

"I don't know what's wrong with it." Sometimes I wonder why I even bother working for him- I could tell him I won't come back, I don't really need his money anyway. "I could go get my own if-"

He waves his hand at me. "Do it, then! I don't have all day."

He shuts the door before I have the time to reply, and I sigh, turn around and walk down the porch steps again. Going home and then back means I will be late to the others I have on my schedule today, but hopefully they will understand.

When I come home, I notice the familiar car parked on the driveway. I stop at first, because these days, the last months, it has been a rare sight. Then I slowly walk up to it, let my fingers touch the handle on the back door, remembering how many times I've tugged at it, Steve snapping at me to be careful, to ride to school. At first it was always me and Johnny in the back seat, once I got to High school. But it was only for a month - before Bob Sheldon and Windrixville and the fire happened - and I shudder, not wanting to think about it.

And not wanting to think about who always rode shotgun, everywhere, if not driving himself. Not wanting to think about if he'll ever sit in this car again.

I walk inside, the sound from the kitchen revealing where to go. Steve closes the fridge when he sees me. "Thought you were out mowing," he says sulkily, one of Darry's beers in his hand.

"Thought you were at work," I reply, leaning my shoulder against the doorway, watching him sit down at the table. He wears his DX uniform, and he removes the cap and put it in front of him on the table top.

"It's called break, kid." He opens the bottle with his teeth, and I walk around the table to sit down, too. "What's your excuse?"

"Mr. Carter's mower broke down," I say. "I only came home to get ours."

"Why you care about helping that grumpy old man?" Steve mutters, taking a gulp from the beer. "Let him mow his own fuckin' lawn."

I just shrug, not wanting to tell him the real reason, that I hate to be at home so much I don't even care where I am when I'm not here. I'm sure he knows anyway.

My hands fidget in my lap. I can't help but glance at the door now and then, like I'm waiting for Soda to come home, too, dashing into the kitchen while picking up his deck of cards from the front pocket of his DX-shirt, inviting me to joint them in a game. Steve would glare at me once I said yes, but I know he liked it when I played with them, my poker face one of the worst in history, according to him.

Shit, he always played me off all my cigarettes.

Steve is watching me, and maybe he knows what I'm thinking, because he seems to hesitate, before eventually saying, "Maybe I can take a look at it. Can't be harder than fixing a car, yeah?"

"I doubt he will pay you for that, even if you fixed it."

He smirks, but then the smile disappears and he looks down at his cap. "Don't care. I just had to get away from the DX for a while. Don't mean I can't be useful in the meantime."

I feel the usual knot in my stomach when he lifts his head and our eyes meet again.

I guess we both feel the need to escape sometimes.

xXx

I can hear a low rumble of thunder in the distance. Shading my eyes with my hand, I squint over the broken fence and railroad behind it, up at the blue sky - but I find it's not so blue in the horizon.

Steve mutters something where he sits on one knee in the grass, his hands working on the old, rusty mower. I drag my gaze away from the dark clouds to look down on him, feeling something unsettling in my stomach. Maybe it's the bad weather coming in, the sticky air that makes it heavy to breathe, but I know it's not - it's from the angle I see him, dressed like that, his face hidden under the DX-cap and the way he bends his neck.

A quick look and I could mistake him for being my brother.

"You sure it even worked before it broke down?" Steve gets up on his feet, wiping his hands on an old rag while kicking at the machine, like I did before. "Should take it to the fuckin' junk yard." The left side of his mouth twitches up as he replaces the rag with a pack of smokes from his pocket. I watch as he shakes out a stick and lights it, feel the need for one of my own, clamped between my fingers, its nicotine and tar in my lungs and blood.

"So you can't fix it, then," I say, taking the pack when he offers it to me.

He blows out smoke, smirking. "I can give you a long list of what's wrong with it."

I glance back at the clouds, twisting the pack in my hands. "I need to get the job done before the rain. He-"

I'm interrupted when the back door suddenly swings open, and Mr. Carter comes out onto the porch stretching around the house. He leans on a cane, wavering with his other hand toward Steve.

"Who's that boy? I don't want no strangers here, get off my property!"

Steve scowls as he turns his head, and I hurry to say, "Mr. Carter, this is Steve. He's tryin' to fix-"

"What do you do with my mower? An' put that thing out, you wanna set my grass on fire? Burn my house down?" He takes a wobbly step forward, his blue eyes wild and furious, his free hand grabbing the rail. "Get off, before I call the police!"

I hastily shake my head at Steve when he opens his mouth, and his expression goes darker. "Don't," I say quietly.

"Shit, Pony, why you even work for that old bastard? Don't you have enough _nice_ people, wanting to get their fucking lawns mowed?"

I continue to look at him, trying to find something to say. I can't even explain to myself why it feels like I have to. I promised, maybe that's the reason. He's old and grumpy, barks more than smiles - if he ever smiles - but he's also too decrepit to manage to mow his own lawn. He has no kids, what I know of. No wife, no family. He's alone.

"He pays me good money," I finally say, and it's not really a lie, he pays as much as the rest of them, but I feel myself blush anyway. Steve has always looked through my bullshit - I can trick Soda, lie to Darry, but Steve always seem to know when I'm not telling the whole truth.

He glares at Mr. Carter one more time, then back at me, narrowing his eyes. I can see he wants to argue, but in the end, he just shakes his head. "Fine. Do whatever, but I sure ain't stayin' here!"

Mr. Carters stares as he leaves, and I put the pack in my pocket, go to my own mower and start it up, continue to cut the grass, manage to finish just before the rain.

xXx

 _July 1968_

He's been in Vietnam for two months and no letter.

The optimistic part of my brain try to tell me it's because he hasn't got the time, yet. Maybe they don't have pens and papers where he is now, in the jungle somewhere. Maybe he has nothing to say at the moment, maybe the mail lies in a sack, ready to be shipped or flown overseas but stands forgotten in a corner.

Maybe his letters will lie in our mailbox tomorrow.

But the other part, the one I'm listening to the most, whispers so loudly it's almost a scream in my head, that he hasn't written because he can't - because he's lying hurt somewhere, or worse.

Or worse.

My running shoes hit the asphalt in an unsteady rhythm, but I pick up the pace, words hitting me with every step, boring into my heart like a switchblade, everything that I can imagine taking my brother's life. I try to push them away, but they are stubbornly stuck, and I hate myself for thinking them-

war;

guns

bombs

fire

war;

guns

bombs

fire

Two months. No letter.

And I run.

xXx

 _Vietnam, June 1968_

 _'Dear Darry and Pony.'_

 _I stop, not sure how to continue. What I can tell them. I know I promised Pony everything will be okay, and I still believe that. I still believe I will go home in one piece one day. But if - if not - if this will be the last they hear from me, I want it to be good. I want to say the right things.  
_

 _'I wish I was home with you guys.'_

 _Very clever. I cross that out._

 _"I hope everything's okay at home.'_

 _Yeah. A lot better._

 _'I hope you enjoy summer break, Pony. Here they wake us up early every morning, and then we have to go for a run. Bet I could race you now.'_

 _I look around in the tent, at the sleeping, snoring guys. I should be asleep, too, but I need to do this. Should have done it weeks ago._

 _'It's hot over here, but sometimes it's raining.'_

 _I frown. Talk about the weather, I guess that ain't what they wanna hear about. But I let it be.  
_

 _'So far it's kind of boring here.'_

 _So far? Cross that out. Better they think it's boring all the time. No combats for me._

 _'Don't worry about me.'_

 _No. Cross that out, too._

 _'I haven't killed anyone yet.'_

 _Shit! No way. Cross that out._

 _'It ain't so bad over here. Me and the guys played poker today and I won some candy bars.'_

 _Yeah. That's okay, I can tell them that.  
_

 _'Food's okay but it could've been better. I have to stop now but I'll write again, soon. If I don't have time before your birthday, Happy birthday, Pony. Darry, make him a chocolate cake. Eat a piece for me, too. A big one.  
_

 _Soda'_

 _I quickly rewrite it on a new paper, fold it and put it in an envelope. I write the address, put a stamp in the corner._

 _Then I go to bed, trying not to think about home.  
_

* * *

 _Smaller changes in this chapter, too, and an added scene. Thank you so much for reading!  
_


	4. Dirty Road

**Why We're Playing With Fire**

 **4\. Dirty Road  
**

 _July 1968_

My feet against the pavement is the only sound I hear. That and how I suck in air, forcing it out with every step, and from the unsteady rhythm I'm holding I know that I'm running too fast and uncontrolled, that I won't last for much longer if I'm going to keep this up. The houses lie dark around me. Occasionally I run past one with lights in the windows, but I don't care to make up stories about the people inside of them, what they are doing up this early in the morning. I have too much else to think about, to try to run away from.

My t-shirt is already soaked with sweat, but I don't slow down even if my whole body is starting to hurt. My chest, my arms, my legs, my feet, my head. I keep going until my mouth is so dry I can't even spit. I stumble over the rail road tracks, and then I'm so tired I'm forced to slow down before finally stopping, placing my hands on my knees and doubling over, dark spots dancing in front of my eyes as I try to catch my breath. My heart beats against my rib cage, too hard and too fast. But at least I'm not crying.

The sun has start to rise behind me, coloring the sky lighter and making it warmer. I remember a time when I used to watch the sunrise, when I liked the beginning of a new day. I must have tricked myself, because it was a long time ago my days were good. I guess the last time I felt completely fine was before Mom and Dad's accident, but now I hate to be awake, to not know if this is the day I'm going to lose another one I love. I don't know how to live through that again, if it happens.

 _I promise to come home. Alive._

I hear Soda's voice in my head, him said goodbye before entering the bus, his hair cut short but still in his normal clothes. His smile, his hand on my shoulder before pulling me into a hug, his whisper in my ear to not let this crap bring me down, to not think about him too much. To not look so sad.

Closing my eyes, I wish he had said what I wanted to hear. But I know he couldn't make that promise, and what hurts the most is that he knew it, too.

That's why he never said it.

xXx

I climb in through my window, take off my t-shirt and throw it into a corner. I need a smoke. It's that or break down, and I'm too tired of crying when it doesn't help anyway. Looking around, I start to lift books and papers and dirty clothes, knowing I should have a pack lying somewhere around here. I hope I haven't smoked them all up, but maybe I have. It's not like I'm counting.

"Pony?"

I jerk at the sound of his voice, turn my head and find my brother in the doorway. "Shit, Darry," I groan, sitting down on my bedside, rubbing my temple. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

"You've been out running?" He shakes his head slowly in disbelief. "It ain't even 5 am."

"So?" I mumble, pretending for myself that I didn't try to hide it from him, that I didn't do something wrong sneaking out in the middle of the night. That I'm running to get better at track, to manage to get a scholarship for college, no other reason.

"Do you get any sleep at all?" he wonders, and I know I should ask him the same thing, with the dark bags under his eyes and the tired look in them. But I don't say it, instead I just sigh, avert my gaze and spot the pack of Khools halfway hidden under my jeans lying on the carpet. I reach for it, but it turns out to be empty. Cursing, I aim for the trashcan and miss.

"You should clean up in here." Darry looks at the mess on my floor, and I grimace, feeling like trashing it even more just to spite him. Who cares about messes, now?

"Yeah, sure," I say anyway, to get him off my case. Maybe I can get a lock on my door and then he won't have to care, either.

"I mean it, Ponyboy."

I glare at him, hating how he sometimes treats me like a little kid. "I said I'm gonna do it," I mutter.

He turns to leave, but then hesitates, supporting his hand against the doorpost. "I picked up an extra shift tonight," he says apologetically. "Don't sit up waiting, okay?"

I try to keep my face neutral. I really do.

"Pony, you know we need he money. With your birthday coming up-"

"I don't care about my birthday."

"Well, I do. I know Soda want us to -"

"But he ain't here, is he?" I interrupt him again. "I told you I don't want to celebrate. It wouldn't feel right."

"Just something small then," Darry almost pleads. "Have some cake, call the guys to come over?"

"You gonna take the day off?" I cross my arms, stare at him.

He looks at me for a moment, and I have to bite my teeth down hard to stop my jaw from quavering. He's working too much, and he knows it, too. Sometimes I wonder if this thing with Soda is worse for him than me, the way he looks at me like he thinks he has failed to keep us safe. He doesn't know what to do more than I do, and it kills him. He was always the strong one before, and now all he wants to do is fleeing.

"I'll do my best, okay?"

xXx

Just to have an excuse for coming here, I pick a candy bar from one of the shelves and a Coke from the ice box, slowly making my way up to the counter to pay. It's a short line in front of me, and all the time waiting in it I wonder if I shouldn't have come here, to this place with all the memories. But I stay, and when it's my turn I fumble with the money, not really looking at the guy who's not Soda waiting patiently, gently asking for another dime after counting my coins and finding I didn't leave him enough.

I dig into my pocket, red in my face, but just as I'm about to go, leave my spot for the next customer, I manage to ask him if Steve is working today.

"He should be." He points with his thumb over his shoulder. "Out back."

I walk outside, round the corner and find him leaning over the open hood of a car, muttering curses for himself. He doesn't see me, and I stop, thinking this is a bad idea, but it shouldn't be - he's my friend too, isn't he? And we haven't seen him in our house for nearly two weeks. Two-Bit comes and goes, and even if he doesn't stay long anymore, at least he comes. He hasn't given up on us.

"Hey, Steve."

Just glancing over his shoulder, he turns back to the car, and I move to stand beside him so he can't ignore me.

"Don't stand in the way, Pony."

"I don't."

He gives me a glare, and I take a small step back.

"What you doin' here?" he mutters once he's satisfied with the distance I put between us.

"I just came to buy some stuff." I show him my wares, suddenly feeling embarrassed because I know what it most look like - I used to come here all the time when Soda was at work, I never needed an excuse to show up before.

"You haven't been around much."

"You haven't either."

He doesn't say anything else, just leaves the car to walk into the garage, coming back with another tool. I feel ridiculous, just standing here with my candy, and I bite my lip, trying to think of something to say.

"So, um, it's my birthday next week. Maybe you want to come?"

Still no answer. He slips with the tool and curses loudly, lifting his hand to examine his finger. A small drop of blood trickles down his wrist, and he drags out a dirty rag from his pocket to wipe it off. I'm just about to go, leave him and his foul mood, when he suddenly looks at me again, eyes hard.

"You heard from Soda, yet?" He speaks so low I almost can't hear him. "Any letter?"

I only shake my head, not trusting my voice to answer that.

He wraps the rag around his finger, holding it tight for a moment before peeking under it. "It's on Monday, right?" he asks, changing the subject, the tone of his voice so fast it takes a second for me to get what he means.

"Yeah."

He nods, pushing the rag back into his pocket. "All right. Now get lost kid, I need to work."

xXx

I pick up the bills from the mailbox on my way in, walking slowly over the lawn like I try to delay reaching the front door. Our driveway is still empty, but I remember Darry telling me he would be late tonight. Not that he has to tell me that - it had been better with the other way around, since that happens a lot more rarely these days. I just wish I could tell him how much I hate spending the evenings alone.

Throwing the mail onto the coffee table, I make my way into the kitchen, sit down on Soda's chair and light up a cigarette. I knock the ash off into a dirty coffee cup left since breakfast, staring out the window and smoking one cigarette after the other as it's getting darker and darker outside. Inside, too, I realize, because I haven't turned on any lamps, and I guess that explains why I have started to squint in a try to see better.

I rise to flicker the switch, making the kitchen bathe in light. I blink, suddenly look at the room like it's something foreign, an abandoned place where I don't want to be. But my stomach growls and I realize I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, if I don't count the candy bar. So I walk over to the fridge and open the door, then close it, and then I do the same with the cupboards until finally admitting for myself that I don't feel like cooking, don't feel like eating anything at all.

The house is too quiet, and with a curse I go to the living room, turn on the TV just to kill the silence. Throwing myself down onto the couch, I kick my feet up onto the coffee table, accidentally knocking over the pile of mail, spreading the envelopes over the table top.

I freeze.

Slowly putting my feet back onto the floor I lean forward, reaching out a shaky hand. I recognize it immediately, Soda's sloppy handwriting, and suddenly I feel myself grin wide, my smile splitting my face as relief spreads through my body.

I pick it up, not caring to look if it's for Darry or me or both, like I care, I just need to see his words, to see for myself that he's okay. I rip the letter open, pick out the folded piece of paper while my heart is thumping, and just like the first one it's short and not saying much at all, but at least he sent it and that means he's alive. Right?

I lean back, read it over and over, drink in his words, trying to ignore the date in the corner that tells me he wrote it over a month ago.

xXx

 _June 1968_

 _I swat away a mosquito landing on my neck, wanting my blood for supper. I hate those bastards, and I hate the heat, the sweat that trickles down my face under my helmet. My feet can't breathe in the heavy combat boots, but I keep walking like the guys in front of me and behind me, my M16 ready in my hands. I don't know how many miles we have put behind us today, but I know I'm dead tired._

 _It's a dirty road, and we walk in a long line with high grass to our right and the dark jungle to the left. It's almost eerie quiet around us, like the whole world is keeping its breath, waiting for something to happen. The sun is high and we have been walking since morning, following the few vehicles ahead to somewhere I can't even spell.  
_

 _"Psst, Curtis?"_

 _I turn my head just slightly, making sure to keep my place in the line. "What?" I whisper, and Morris grins at me._

 _"Which month do soldiers hate most?"_

 _"I don't know." Wrinkling my forehead, I take a guess. "December?"_

 _He grimaces at me. "Why the fuck you think that?"_

 _I shrug with one shoulder, thinking it will probably be awful, being here on Christmas time. If I'm still alive by then, but I shake the thought of not be off. It ain't that hard, actually, 'cause it's kind of hard to even imagine it, that I can die.  
_

 _"It's fuckin March, man," Morris tells me. "You get it? March."_

 _"Yeah. Very funny."_

 _"What? I think it was!"_

 _Chuckling for myself, I turn forward again, take a longer step to close the too big distance between me Artie, and that's when hell breaks loose._

* * *

 _I'm so, so sorry for the long wait! I really hope this story still have readers. Don't give up on it, because I promise I won't, and hopefully I will be able to update faster next time.  
_


	5. Powerless

**Why We're Playing With Fire  
**

 **5\. Powerless  
**

 _July 1968_

"Aw, kiddo, a pug looks happier than you." Two-Bit shakes his head sadly as he sits down next to me on the couch. I turn my face away as he leans forward, trying to catch my gaze.

"You all right, Pony?" He asks it a lot quieter, and I shrug slightly in response. There isn't any use to lie; the concern in his eyes tells me he won't buy it anyway. It's my birthday, I should be happy and smiling, in party mood. I should be happy over my new running shoes and the cake waiting in the kitchen. I should be happy that my brother and friends care about trying to make this day good.

I wrap my arms around me, dip my head and sigh. "I'll be okay."

He nudges my shoulder. "I've got somethin' for ya that will put a smile on that face, but you have to come with me to get it."

"Um, right now?"

He glances toward the kitchen, lowering his voice. "Later. I'll tell Darry we're goin' to the movies tonight. Just play along."

He jumps up before I can stop him, and I groan, putting my hands over my face. If this day could get any worse, I guess that just happened. It's not that I don't want to hang out with Two-Bit, but I know his antics, and the risk they will get me into trouble.

I get up on my feet, but as I walk around the coffee table the front door opens up and Steve walks inside, letting it shut behind him. He raises his chin to greet me, but he doesn't say anything, no smile and no happy birthday or nothing, and I could have hugged him.

"Pony, is that Steve? The cake's almost ready," Darry calls from the kitchen, and I roll my eyes at our friend, who gives me a smirk in response.

"You up for some cake?" I ask.

"Nope."

I push my hands down into my pockets, glancing down at the carpet. "Yeah, me neither." I feel awful for being such a dipstick toward Darry, but I don't think I can eat anything today, especially not chocolate cake. I don't care what Soda wrote in the letter, to eat for him too. I won't be able to do it.

"Humor superman." Steve looks around, I guess to make sure Darry won't suddenly turn up, because then he reaches into his own pocket. "Catch, kid."

I get my hands up, my fingers just barely manage to close around the little foil package he throws at me before it falls to the floor.

"Uh..."

"I promised Soda to give you that." He grimaces as he says his name, a shadow over his face, but then he seems to shake it off. "With you being sixteen an' all, he figured you might need it. Don't know why he figured but a promise is a promise."

I blush hard. "I don't..." But my words leave me, and I cough, clearing my throat as I feel myself getting even redder. I know I should think about girls, remembering Soda's talk from a few years ago, how it would change for me, the interest in them and dating. And sure, I find them cute, some cuter than others, but most days I have too much else to think about, I don't know how to fit dating into my life at this point. And truth is, I guess I just don't want to get close to anyone else right now. People just leave, in one way or the other anyway. I don't know if I can deal with more losses.

"Shit, kiddo," Steve curses, glaring hard. "Don't look like that, it ain't like I'm gonna tell you all about the bees and flowers."

"Um, yeah, well, no need for that."

"Ponyboy?" Darry calls again, and I quickly put the condom into the back pocket of my jeans, biting my lip as he sticks his head out from the kitchen doorway. "You guys coming before Two-Bit starts in?"

"Yeah, sure," I say, making sure to not meet Steve's eyes as I walk past Darry into the kitchen.

xXx

I know Darry has tried hard for me, but seeing his effort makes this even harder. There is a chocolate cake with sixteen candles, there are Mom's finest china, the Birthday cup standing next to my plate. My face still burning from Steve's gift, I sit down on my chair, really hoping there won't be any singing. Soda used to sing, loudest of us all, but this morning Darry just woke me up, put that pair of new running shoes on my stomach and told me he would head out for grocery shopping, but that he wouldn't go to work. And then we just spent the day not saying much, skipping around the sore subject every time we opened our mouths. The first birthday with just the two of us, more than half of our family gone. It's crazy, really, thinking about the last years and everything that has happened, too many empty chairs and missing faces. Sometimes I look around and wondering who will be next, but truth is, I already know. I look at the cake and think this is the last time - if Soda doesn't come home, I'll never eat chocolate cake again. I won't celebrate my birthday again. I won't stay in this house. I'll leave town or jump from a bridge. Probably not the latter, because I wouldn't do that to Darry, but...

My stomach churns, but I try to act normal when Darry pushes the cake towards me, smiling and telling me to blow out the candles. I blow them all out in one go, not making any wish, and then glance at Darry as I cut the smallest piece I can. He frowns as I put it on my plate, but at least he doesn't say anything, just continue to pass the cake to Two-Bit.

I pick up my spoon and scoop up a little icing, but my stomach turns again as I put it in my mouth and feel the taste of rich chocolate with the perfect amount of sugar. This is wrong. So wrong.

I push the plate away and stand up.

"Pony-" Darry starts, but I interrupt him.

"I just... I just need a smoke, okay?" Not waiting for a reply, I flee the kitchen and make my way down the hall and out the back door. Fumbling for my pack I realize it's inside, that I didn't brought it with me, and I knot my hand into a fist and press it over my mouth, letting my teeth dig so deep into my skin I know it will leave marks. I can't lose Soda. Not him, too. I need to go to Vietnam and bring him home. If I were eighteen, I would enlist and go, but I'm only sixteen, today, and I'm powerless.

I have no control over anything, and it scares me to death.

xXx

 _June, 1968_

 _Artie is dead. He lies sprawled out in front of me, not moving, not breathing, eyes open without blinking. I swallow the lump in my throat, knowing I have to push it aside for now, that it's no time to feel anything about it if I want to make out of this alive. And I will do it. I have to._

 _Morris crawls up next to me, bumping his elbow against mine. Another explosion. Dust and gravel swirls in the air. I duck again, as far as I can, trying to make myself a smaller target. My helmet covers too much of my sight, and I lift a hand to adjust it, squinting toward the trees._ Where the hell are they _? I can't see nothing, but my finger finds the trigger._

 _"Curtis," Morris hisses, his mouth close to my ear. "They're too fucking many. C'mon."_

 _He slowly starts to crawl backwards, urging me to follow. I ain't sure moving is the greatest idea, but it's in front of us people are dying. I use my knees and elbows, not letting my eyes leave the jungle, searching for the shadows I know is lurking there._

 _Another rain of bullets, even closer, dusting up the sky, leaving my ears ringing when it's over._

 _"Dammit, Curtis," Morris shouts, grabbing my arm with his free hand. I shake him off, my face blank and sweaty, my breath hitching. The shadows have left the jungle, moving determined in heavy boots and bare arms, eyes hard and hateful in dirty faces. Some falls, screaming or silent, bodies pierced with our bullets, but the others keep going, returning the fire. Closer and closer._

 _I pick a target, trying to pretend it's a deer, not a human. And I think of my brothers, my friends, Artie._

 _I will go home. I will go home. I repeat it in my head, over and over, as I raise my gun and squeeze the trigger._

xXx

July 1968

The back door opens up and Darry appears with a plate in his hand. Sitting down on the back steps, he watches me where I stand in the yard, my eyes at the darkening sky.

"I brought you this," Darry says, placing the plate next to him. I look at it, and it's not mine. I cut a thin piece, but this one is a lot bigger. I move my eyes to look at his face, but it's unreadable, not revealing anything.

"What do you think Soda's doing?" I blurt out, then bite my tongue. I turn away from my brother, because sometimes I just hate how vulnerable I feel. I don't want him to see it.

"He's alive, Pony," Darry says, but for some reason, the words turn my worry into anger.

"How do you know?" I snap at him. "You can't know that!"

"I have to believe it."

"You didn't know Mom and Dad was dead. Before you drove to the hospital that night you said you thought they were okay."

"I thought they were. I couldn't imagine-"

"Yeah?" I turn back to him, glare at him. "You said that we shouldn't worry and then they were dead anyway!"

He sighs, drags his hands over his face. "Jesus, Pony. What do you think I should have said, then? We were all in shock that night."

"Just don't lie to me. Do you know how many people that are killed over there? _Thousands._ Why should Soda make it home? What's the difference between him and the others?"

"We just have to believe it. You can't bury him when he's not dead."

" _Yet_." I knot my hands and blink hard, but Darry's glare is harder.

"Don't talk like that, Pony."

"Why?"

"Because we have to- where are you going?"

"I'm going for a run."

"Ponyboy-"

I start sprinting before he has the time to even get up on his feet.

xXx

Hours later, when I stumble into the kitchen, hot and sweaty and breathing hard, Darry is waiting for me. I sit down opposite of him, pushing my wet bangs out of my eyes.

"I'm sorry."

It's Darry who says it, but I know it should be me. I should apologize for not eating the cake he made for me, for running away on my birthday, leaving him all alone. I know this is as hard for him as it is for me, and for Steve and Two-Bit, too.

"I don't know how to deal with this, either," Darry continues. "I don't know what to say or do to make it better."

He sighs, grips around his coffee cup. It looks like it has grown cold, and I wonder how long he has been sitting here, waiting for me to come home.

"But I know that he will be gone for a long time and that we have to live our lives in the meantime, no matter how hard it is. We have to focus on that, to find the positive things."

"So we shouldn't think of Soda? Is that what you're sayin'?" I lean back in the chair, one hand on the table and the other falling to my lap, knotting itself.

"I'm not saying that. Of course we will be thinking of him. But you can't... Pony, you can't put your life on hold until he comes back. It's okay to smile and be happy sometimes even if he's not here."

I roll my eyes and look away.

"I'm serious, Pony. He's my brother, too, I know what this feels like. It's damn unfair, to him and to us, but it is what it is." He drags a hand through his hair. "I don't know if I can worry about you, too."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"Don't I?" He catches my gaze this time. "What's with this running?"

"It's just practice!"

"Today, too?"

I slump a little, feeling almost caught. "I guess not," I say quietly.

We sit in silence after that, my thoughts racing, the only sound the clock ticking, until Darry raises, pouring out the cold coffee and putting his cup in the sink.

"I have to go to bed," he says. "Just promise me to try to take control over your life, Pony. For your sake, not mine or Soda's."

He leaves.

* * *

 _So sorry for this late update! Hopefully you liked this chapter, and please leave a review!  
_


	6. What We Try to Hide

**Why We're Playing With Fire**

 **6\. What We Try to Hide**

 _July 1968_

Black spots are dancing in front of my eyes. I grip the mower's handle harder, push a little forward while shaking my head carefully in a try to clear my vision. I shouldn't have done that, though, I should have kept still, because when the dizziness finally subsides I have pushed the mower straight into one of Mrs. Ellis' flowerbeds.

"Shit." I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one stands in the window looking out, but the only one I can see is a big, red cat staring back at me. I look back at the damage I just did, and I know I will be in trouble for it. This is my richest customer, not South side rich but closer to them than my own neighborhood is to middle class, and I know what Mrs. Ellis think of me, even if it was her husband who hired me. But it's not him who is home during the days, the one who reluctantly pays me with _that_ _look_ in their eyes. Like she's just waiting for me to mess up, making her prejudice about me true.

I drag the mower backwards and cut it off, going down on one knee to see what I can do. I lift some of the broken flowers and try to put them back, but there is no way I can cover this up. Maybe I should just get up and leave - it's tempting, really, the day too hot and sticky to be outside working. It must be almost one hundred degrees out, no wonder I feel like shit. But I finish, not wanting to prove anyone right about what they are thinking, even if I guess me keeping my mouth shut about what I did make it kind of true that I'm a screw up anyway. But as Mrs. Ellis hands me my money with a snotty look, I already have decided I won't be coming back. She can go to hell, and her stupid flowers, too.

Lunch time I spend at the park, just walking around for a bit before sitting down on a bench. Two small boys come running over the grass, one with a soccer ball between his hands, the younger one laughing hard as he tries to catch up. For some reason I think they are brothers, maybe it's because of the same, brown hair color, and I watch them play for a while. A woman who must be their mom hangs back, calling their names now and then when they get too rough with each other, and I put a hand against my stomach when it suddenly aches. They remind me of me and Soda. It used to be us, coming here with Mom when we were younger.

I can't take my eyes off of them. I wonder if their family is whole, if they have a dad and an older brother at home. I wonder if they would be laughing and smiling so much if they knew how fragile life is, how people just suddenly aren't there anymore. How anything can happen when you're not prepared, a car crash, or a fire, or a letter in the mail.

I drag a shaky breath as I remember Soda's face. How he already knew before opening the envelope. How he looked at me first, then Darry, and that smile he gave us, like it wasn't a big deal and it would be okay, but I _saw_ it. What he tried to hide, I _saw_ it.

How many has died already? How many from Tulsa? How many from Oklahoma? I know there are no rules, that losing someone won't mean you can't lose another one. I know that firsthand, that there's no fairness in life at all.

xXx

"What's this?" Darry lifts the lid of the pot on the stove, sniffing in the air. "Smells good."

He starts to set the table, but I stop him just as he puts a plate in front of me.

"I already ate."

"You didn't wait for me?"

My empty stomach makes a turn, and I feel my cheeks heating up. "Sorry," I mumble.

"No, I am. I know I'm late." He looks guilty, but I know it won't change anything. He will always stay away late, and that's not because he has more to do at work. Not anything that's not voluntarily, anyway.

"How was your day?" he asks me as he sits down.

I shrug. "Fine."

"You look a little tired."

"You gonna nag at me for running again?" I snap. He stops with the fork halfway to his mouth.

"I wasn't nagging at you about that. But... did you?"

"What?"

"Run today?"

"I do it every day."

"It's been over hundred degrees out."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. I took it easy." Maybe I should tell him that it's only when I run myself tired I'm able to not put too much focus on my thoughts. When I have to struggle to catch my breath, when I push myself to my limit and over. Way over.

I don't tell him I skipped all the rest of my customers after watching those two brothers in the park. That I spent the next two hours running and walking and stumbling to get the memories of me and Soda and Mom out of my head. To get the pictures of Soda in Vietnam to disappear. Put the stew on the stove, showered for an hour and felt too tired to eat it. He wouldn't understand.

"You want some company?"

"With what?"

"Maybe I can run with you some day if you want to." He says it between bites, and I don't know if he really means it. He probably won't have the time.

"It's okay," I tell him. "I know you're busy with work." It comes out a bit too harsh, and he freezes for a second, fumbling for an excuse.

"Pony, I-"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"It's just the bills and all..."

"You don't have to explain."

He puts his fork down and sighs. I wait for him to try again, to tell me the truth. Why not being home seems more important to him than being with me, why he's abandoning me like this. It has nothing to do with the bills. He's paying them, and we still have money left for food, and I have my own money now, it's not an _issue_. But I am. Soda is. It's how he deals with it, working hard and keeping himself busy.

"What do you think Soda is doing right now?"

Darry turns around in the chair to look at the clock on the wall. "What time is it in Vietnam?" he wonders.

I know that by heart. "Almost nine am."

"Hopefully he's having breakfast." He says it too lightly, like he tries to make me believe that breakfast in Vietnam is the same as breakfast at home. Like Soda's sitting at a table like we do, safe, eating that chocolate cake we always had when he were still here.

"What if-"

"Didn't we agree to stop with all the 'what if's'?"

I don't remember that. "Do you think we would know if he's hurt, or... or..."

Darry's face goes solemn. "Someone would come and tell us," he says softly.

"I mean when it happens. I mean if it happens. At the same time if it happens. Would we know before someone came and told us?"

"I don't think so, Pony."

"Yeah." It means Soda could be dead right now, doesn't it? I rise up on my feet, pushing my chair in. "I'm going to bed, okay?"

 _You don't want to sit up and watch a movie with me?_ I want him to ask me. I linger a bit, waiting again for words that won't come.

"All right. Good night. See you in the morning."

"Night, Darry."

xXx

I lie in my bed, listening to Darry doing the dishes and watching the news. At one point the volume goes down, and I turn to lie on my stomach, pressing my face down into the pillow, knowing too well what he don't want me to hear.

xXx

 _August 1968_

"Where were you last week?"

He doesn't curse, but he sounds so angry I take a step back even if he's on his porch and I'm standing on the lawn, several feet of stairs and grass between us.

"Sorry, Mr. Carter, I wasn't feeling well."

"You can't trust nobody these days! Look at my lawn! Look at the grass!" He gestures wildly at it, even if the worst damage is made by the sun and not me ditching my work last week. The grass is more brown than green, and water had been better than a mower. But I'm not a gardener, and I have already decided this day will be the last one, it's only a week until school starts again anyway. I'm too tired, I need a break from peoples unimportant problems. Who cares about their fucking grass anyway?

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll fix it, okay?"

"And who's that mower? It ain't mine." The old man grips around the railing so hard his knuckles go white, squinting with his eyes. "You stealin' mowers, boy?"

"It's mine. Yours is broken, remember?"

"Well I ain't payin' you extra for that."

"I know."

"Don't just stand there, then. Work!"

Without another word he turns his back at me, stumbles into his house and closes the door so hard I think the window beside it will crack.

I take my time. It's not as hot out as last week, but the dizzy spells have start to come even more often, so I need to be careful with moving too fast. Maybe I need more to drink, but there is no way I will go and ask for a glass of water. Instead I plod away, pushing the mower in front of me, more and more tired for every passing minute. Maybe I shouldn't have come. I should just have given up.

When I'm done my head pounds, and I drag myself up the stairs to the front door. Mr. Carter doesn't hide the money somewhere like most of the others do, and I think he listens to the sound of the mower because he always open the door just as I'm about to knock, ready to shove the money into my hand without a word, before closing the door again in front of my face. I just hope I will have the time to tell him I won't come back next week before it happens.

Only this time the door is still closed when I reach it. I lean against the doorpost as I knock, suddenly a strange feeling in my stomach. Something isn't right.

"Mr. Carter?"

I hear a sound from inside the house, but it's hard to tell what it is. I know that if I go in he will probably just call the police and accuse me of breaking and entering, but I can't just leave, either, and it's not about the money. I really don't like the old man, and I don't know anyone in the neighborhood that does, but if something has happened -

I turn the door handle and fortunately it's not locked. I open the door and stop - it's dark inside, but from the sunlight I can see that the small hallway is completely filled with newspapers. They lie in piles against both walls, almost up to the ceiling, only leaving a small trail between them.

I hesitate. "Mr. Carter?"

I don't want to go inside, but then I hear the sound again, a bit louder this time. I make sure the door wont close behind me, having watched too many horror movies, making my way down the path of newspapers. Only a few feet in there is a door to what must be the kitchen, but it's filled with stuff everywhere. I gape at it for a moment, wondering why anyone would want to live like this, because it looks like trash, not necessary things. I turn my head and continue to walk into a living room, or I think it's a living room but it looks the same as what I so far have seen of the house.

"What you doin' in here?" comes a gruff voice, and I look down. Mr. Carter sits on the floor, crammed between a chair and a bureau, waving with his cane. "Don't just stand there, help me to get up!"

I push some of the things out of my way with my foot. They must have fallen off the piles of stuff when he fell, because the rest of the trail seems neat, if anything could be called that in this house. He's breathing heavy when I lean down to grab his arm, and he looks a bit pale in the dim light coming through the only window not covered up.

I manage to drag him onto his feet. "Um, you have somewhere to sit down, or...?" I trail off when he glares at me.

"Does it looks like I have some place to sit?" he snaps, brushing himself off.

"Sorry."

"You say sorry an awful lot, don't ya, boy?"

I bite my lip, and he turns his back at me, sounding almost more embarrassed than angry this time. "You can go now."

"Are you all right?"

"It ain't none of your business. I just lost my footing."

"But-"

And he's back to his old, angry self. "Didn't you hear me, boy? Get out of my house! Now!"

* * *

 _I know it has been forever, and I'm really, really sorry. Anyone still reading?_


	7. Too Close

**Why We're Playing With Fire**

 **7\. Too Close**

I know I'm not welcome. It's not hard to tell with the angry stare Mr. Carter gives me, but I hesitate when I see his hand tremble around the top of his cane. I can't just _leave_ , can I? What if he falls again and won't be able to get up on his own?

"What are you waiting for?" he barks at me, but he sounds weaker this time, almost afraid.

"I just-"

"Leave my house!" His free hand flies out at me and I flinch, his hostility making me wonder why I even bother trying to help.

"You, uh, want me to call someone?"

"Why? Who would that be?" He moves slowly forward, and I have to back away so he can get past me. "I don't need anyone. Just some water."

I follow him to his kitchen.

"Give me something to drink," he sneers, sitting down on the only chair not buried in trash, and I leave the doorway, open the cupboard over the sink to find a clean glass. As the water run from the tap I lick my dry lips, suddenly aware of my appearance, warm and sweaty, and how my t-shirt is stuck to my body.

I hand him the glass, and he takes it without saying anything. I lean my back against the counter as he sips it slowly, the frown on his forehead increasing. I can tell he doesn't want me here, and maybe he seems a little embarrassed, too, by the way his house looks like. It's weird, really, like he hasn't thrown anything out since he moved in. But everything seems neatly stacked, too, like it's sort of organized when looking closer to it.

"I guess you want your money." Mr. Carter finds a spot for the glass somewhere in the mess on the table top when he's finished, digging up his wallet from his pocket.

"I start school next week so I won't be comin' back," I tell him, taking the bills he hands me. "This is just a summer job."

He doesn't answer, just stands up, but sits again immediately. He mutters a curse, raising his gaze to look at me. "I need to lay down on my bed."

"Oh. Yeah." I help him back through the living room and into his bedroom, which looks as the rest of the house. At least he hasn't any stuff on his bed. He puts his cane next to it, lying down onto his back and closes his eyes.

I stand by the door, feeling stupid when he suddenly lifts an eyelid.

"Get out now," he says.

I go.

xXx

 _August 1968_

 _"Curtis, you're bleeding, man."_

 _I look down on my arm, just below the cuff of my short sleeved shirt._

 _"It ain't nothin'. Just a scratch."_

 _Sammy rolls his eyes and grabs me, somehow finds a stool in the sorry mess of a sudden moved camp and forces me to sit. "It ain't nothing in this damn heat. It can be infected."_

 _He goes down onto his knees and opens a water bottle. As he starts to clean my wound I remove my helmet, dropping it to the ground and raking my hand over my head. I'm still not used to the shave, but I'm kind of thankful for the buzz cut now, 'cause the heat in this damn country is crazy._

 _As I let my eyes wander over who are left of us, I realize I have more things to be thankful for. Sure, they told us we won, we drove the Vietcong's back this time, too, but I don't feel it. Not with how many faces I'm missing among those around us._

 _"Hey, no need for that," I protest when Sammy picks up a bandage roll from his bag. He gives me a hard stare, kind of Darry-like, and I give in with a shake of my head. "Fine, then."_

 _He starts to wrap my upper arm. As his hand bumps into my chest I realize how close the wound is to my heart - had the bullet gone just a few inches to the right I wouldn't be sitting here. I didn't notice, didn't think about it when it grazed me, too caught up in the moment to even feel the pain. But fuck, this was a close call, way too fucking close, and I feel a rush to my head. Grabbing the stool's seat I try to blink away the black splotches threatening to take over my vision._

 _"Christ, you gonna pass out on me?" Sammy says and grabs my shoulder. With his other hand he quickly holds the water bottle to my mouth. "Drink!"_

 _I take a big gulp of the lukewarm water._

 _More guys come into the camp, some walking on their own, some dragged along but at least up on their feet. I spot Morris in the crowd, and realize how worried I was when relief washes over me. I should really drop making friends here, each time finding one of them seriously hurt or dead just making it harder. So much fucking harder. If I think about it too much I'm going insane._

 _As Sammy is finished with my arm he sits down cross legged, fishes up two cigarette butts from the front pocket of his shirt and hands me one. I take the matches from him and light up, quickly take a few deep inhales before its finished, leaving my heart beating calmer but my mouth tasting like ash. Jesus christ. If I had died... I can't imagine how Darry and Pony would have taken the news. And Steve, and Two-Bit, too. My family managed to hold it together somehow, when Mom and Dad passed, but then with Johnny and Dally... it can't be me, too. I know that. And it ain't just them, ain't just them I need to stay alive for. It's for me, too, I don't want to die at eighteen. It's too early, I have still stuff I need to do._

 _"Hey," Sammy says, nudging my arm. "Don't go there."_

 _He must have seen something in my face. I shrug, try to give him a quick smile, forcing the damn thoughts away._

 _"I'm all right," I say._

 _What a big, fucking lie._

xXx

 _August 1968_

Standing in the shower I tilt my head up for a moment, opening my mouth to catch some of the spray. The water is warm and doesn't taste good, but I'm so thirsty I hardly think about it. All my limbs are hurting, especially my legs, and I prop a hand against the wall for support. Even if it's hot in here the surface is cold under my palm, and I dip my head again, feel the water beat down over the tense muscles in the back of my neck.

I could stay here forever. I probably would have, too, if I didn't hear the front door closing, and I almost jolt in surprise because it's too early for Darry to be home. Turning off the shower I reach for my towel and dry myself quickly, regretting not taking any clean clothes with me.

"Pony?" Darry calls, and I hear him drop his keys onto the coffee table.

"In here," I call back, wrapping the towel around my waist and open the door. "I've just taken a shower," I say unnecessarily as I step out into the hallway. Strange is it - I always wanted him to not work overtime, but now when he's home I almost wish I was alone again.

He gives me a too big smile. "Hey, kiddo. I brought pizza." He holds out the carton for me to see. "I thought we could catch up a little."

I eye the food. "Um..."

"It's extra cheese and pineapple," he tells me.

Soda's favorite. I wonder if he's aware of that, and I stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to say, when his eyes suddenly narrow and his smile disappears as he looks me over.

"Have you been losing weight?" he wonders.

"No." I wrap one arm around my stomach, the other holding the towel in place.

"You sure? You look a little thin."

"Yeah, I'm sure."

He doesn't seem to believe me, the doubt clearly visible in his eyes.

"Darry, I'm fine, okay? I have grown a little, that must be it. I'm goin' to get dressed now." With the heart beating in my chest I try to look casual as I walk into my room, picking out boxers and a pair of jeans and a long sleeve to wear. I do my best to dry my hair with the towel, dragging a comb though it a couple of times, then sit down onto my bed trying to breathe evenly. I don't know how long I sit here, but apparently long enough for Darry to get impatient, showing up in the doorway.

"Pony? What are you doing? The pizza is getting cold."

"I don't want pizza."

"You don't want pizza?" He sounds disappointed. And maybe a little hurt.

"I forgot to tell you I ate before. I ain't hungry right now."

The silence feels thick, almost palpable. I wish I hadn't said anything, just walked out with him to eat that damn pizza, to make things good between us again, but I can't take my words back.

Darry sighs. "I guess we could save it for later. I can heat it up in the oven."

"It's okay if you want to eat it now." I can't meet his eyes when he's looking at me like that. "You don't have to save it."

"What's wrong?" he wonders.

"Nothing's wrong." I rub my hands over my thighs. I just want him to leave.

"Cut that, kiddo. Did something happen today?"

"No."

He walks inside, sitting down on my bed next to me. "You know you can talk to me."

"Yeah, but it's nothing."

"Is it Soda?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. Darry places his arm around my shoulders, and I lean into him. My room suddenly feels too big, our house too quiet, the only sound a small hum from the pipes after my shower.

"It's gonna be okay," Darry says, but I know he doesn't believe it, either.

xXx

 _September 1968_

"Curtis!"

I don't want to stop, but I do it anyway, clutching my math book against my chest as I turn around. I wish I could say I'm in a hurry, but actually, I'm not. It's my lunch period, and he knows it, too, still twenty minutes left to my next class.

"You weren't at try outs yesterday," Coach says as he has caught up with me. "You know I can't put you on the team if you don't show up."

"Um, yeah." My heart starts to drum in my chest as I see the disappointment in his eyes. I hate this. I wish I could do it, just do what he wants, what Darry wants, but I can't.

"I can make some time for you tomorrow if you like, before school starts." He says it like he still thinks it can happen. "You want to be on the team, don't you?"

"I..." I falter for words, to explain that my head is not with me anymore, than running is something else these days. Not something I enjoy anymore.

"I was counting on you this season."

"I can't... I can't do it right now."

"What can't you do? Run?"

I stare at the floor, not answering.

"When the team is set, I can't make room for you later if you change your mind."

"I won't change my mind," I mumble, and he drags his hand through his hair, like he always does when he's frustrated. My stomach growls and I push my fist into it to stop it.

"I know about your brother, Ponyboy," Coach says, strangely calm. "I understand that you have a hard time, given your... history. But would he want you to give up? You can have a full ride to college in the end of the year."

I press my lips together, hating that he drags Soda into this. Even if it is about Soda. Everything is.

I hold my books so hard my hands hurt, and I can't even hide the tone in my voice, cold and uncaring and a little rude.

"Yeah, but maybe I don't want to go to college either."

* * *

 _Thank you so, so much for your support! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please let me know what you think of it! :)_


	8. Dog Tags

**Why We're Playing With Fire**

 **8\. Dog Tags**

 _September 1968_

I tap my pen against the paper, the letters and numbers on it making no sense. It should be easy, I should be able to solve the problems on the math pop quiz, but I can't stop my eyes from wandering to the window, looking at the rain patter against the glass. And it's not just my eyes, it's my mind, too, being everywhere except at school.

"Mr. Curtis?"

It takes a while until I realize Mr. Hall means me. I look to the front of the class room, surprised too see empty chairs and a clutter of students by the door, already on their way out, talking and laughing.

"Shit," I mumble, collecting my empty papers and school bag. Mr. Hall watches me as I make my way up to him, reaching out his hand to grab my test. I don't say anything as I hand it to him, feeling stupid to have missed the bell, but he halts me with a hand on my arm.

"Are you all right, Ponyboy?"

I shift my feet, knowing my lie will be obvious, but I say it anyway. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He looks at me, then back at the paper, holding it up for me to see. Like I didn't already know.

"This isn't like you."

"Everyone can have a bad day," I say evasively, hoisting my backpack higher up on my shoulder. I glance at the clock, but it's lunch hour, so it's not like I have another class to hurry to.

"Sure," he agrees. "But you have been absentminded in class every since school started. Last quiz you only reached fifty percent. This-"

"I'll do better next time." I move my feet again, starting to get anxious. I just want to leave.

"Is everything all right at home?"

The question I dreaded. It's still a too sour subject since Mom and Dad died, every grown up trying to pry and find wrongs in the way we are living. "Yeah."

"You aren't sick, are you? You need to go to the nurse? You are a little pale."

"No, I'm fine." I force a smile. "I guess I'm just a bit stressed you know, since it's my senior year."

He still looks concerned, but I notice a change in his face, and I manage to relax a little.

"If you're sure that's just it," he says. "But you need to try to focus a bit more. I'm sorry, but I can't give you an A as it looks now."

I nod.

"Okay," he says slowly, like he doesn't want to let me go but has to. I make sure to not haste too much as I leave, in case he will notice something and call me back.

I go outside to smoke, standing under the roof to not get wet. I lean my back against the brick wall, starting to think about my life. I thought I had it planned out good; running track and making straight A's to get a full ride sholarship, staying close to Tulsa but maybe travel a bit, to New York and Los Angeles after graduation, when I have gotten a job. Meet someone and have some kids, maybe, when I'm old enough. See my brothers getting on with their lives when they don't have to take care of me anymore.

It would have been a good life. Maybe not perfect, but after Mom and Dad and Johnny and Dally it can't be, but close to it, anyway.

I don't know how war could come between my dreams and my future. It has nothing to do with us, Soda didn't even know where to find Vietnam on the map. I had to show him, point it out, and he tried to look like it was no big deal with the flight over there, but I knew he was worried. And it felt strange, that he seemed to be more worried about flying than going to war, but I guess it felt more real. He could imagine sitting in a plane, but not how it would be once he arrived over there.

I light up another cigarette. I feel a strange heaviness in my stomach, but I ignore it, and after a while it goes away. I think it's the stress. Or that is what I tell myself.

xXx

"Move, Ponyboy," Two-Bit chides me. He pushes at my legs with his own, until I drop my feet from the coffee table so he can squeeze himself past me and sit down on the couch next to me. "What are we watching?"

I shrug, staring at the TV but not really paying attention. "I don't know."

"You don't - hey, Steve, bring me a plate, too!"

Steve comes out of the kitchen, a dinner plate in one hand and a beer in the other, shaking his head at Two-Bit. "Go get it yourself, lazy-ass."

"But I just sat down!" Two-Bit protests.

"So?" Steve sits down onto the armchair, taking a swig of the beer.

"Pony's in the way," Two-Bit grumbles. "C'mon, Pony. Ain't you hungry?"

"I already ate."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Two-Bit gets up on his feet again, and I press myself back to let him pass me. He disappears into the kitchen, and I hear him starting to talk to Darry, who sits by the table with all the bills. It should be a normal evening, buddies just hanging out, but the empty spot Soda has left is even bigger when everyone is around. I sigh and cross my arms, feel the urge to get up and leave, but try to stay put. It's raining like crazy, and I know what would happen if I went outside - the questions, the worry, the fight that would follow.

I give it another hour, try to talk and act normal, before I force a yawn and excuse myself. It's only nine o'clock in the evening, but I blame it on school, that my homework is killing me.

And I stop and bite my lip, not looking at anyone. _Killing me._

Papers don't kill me.

War does.

xXx

 _October 1968_

The two girls coming up to me where I stand in the school yard are no ones I know. I don't have any classes with them, what I know of. Maybe I have, but I think I should have recognized them, giving they are pretty cute. I lower my hand with the cigarette, holding it close to my hip so it won't blow smoke on them.

"You are Ponyboy, aren't you?" the tallest of them says.

"Yeah." She's real pretty, dark hair framing her face, and blue eyes. I give her a smile. "Why?"

They glance at each other. "Your brother... it's Sodapop, right?"

"We're just wondering if he's still alive. We heard he went to 'Nam and... I mean, he's so cute!"

"Yeah, it would be a waste if he didn't come home. Have you heard from him?"

I blink, my smile disappearing. I'm not sure I heard them right, and I try to keep the wire suddenly wrapping itself hard around my heart not visible on my face. And then I feel it, the anger starting to boil. I know, if it had been a guy in front of me I would have hit him so hard for saying shit like that. But I can't hit a girl, even if I knot my hand into a fist. Maybe I can't hide it because they back away, mumble something and leave. They turn their heads a few times, looking at me as they hurry into school, and their gazes are more confused than sorry. Like they don't even know what they did wrong.

I stare at my cigarette. My head hurts. My heart and my eyes, too. Everything gets blurry and I know I have to, no, _need_ to leave. The bell rings for first period, but I'm out of the gates by then, trying to control my anger, my hurt, my fear.

My brother, he's not just a handsome face. He's my _brother._ It wouldn't be a waste if he didn't come home, it would be devastating, it would slung me out into nothingness. It would mean that I have more family on the other side than I have alive. I can't handle more loss. I can't do it. I can't even think about it and two fucking, ugly girls came and ripped something from me.

I wish I had a safe place to go to but I don't. I don't have anywhere to go but running.

xXx

I'm hurting all over. I'm so dizzy I can't look up. Everything moves if I try. I lay on my back on the hard sidewalk, panting, with my eyes closed. I rest my hand against my stomach, feel it move up and down with my short breaths, my mouth tasting like iron.

" _Get up_!"

The voice is distant, and I don't think whoever it is talks to me. Until I feel something hard against my side.

"You deaf now, boy?"

I open my eyes, stare up at the surprising sight of Mr. Carter. He taps me again with his cane, harder this time, and I groan and sit up, rubbing my temple.

"You should be in school. Why ain't you in school?"

I can't answer. I put my head in my hands, afraid that I will faint if I move another inch.

"What's wrong with you?"

What's wrong with me? I know what it is. I just ran about seven miles, maybe more, maybe less, but I ran them without any food in my stomach, and no water. I ran without looking. Or thinking. And I just realize I am outside of Mr. Carter's house, and that's why he stands here, glaring at me and tapping me with his cane. If I didn't knew better I think I heard concern in his voice.

"'m allright," I finally manage. I put one hand against the asphalt, pushing myself up. "Oh," I say, as the world tips over.

A hand grips my arm, keeping me from falling by guiding me to the fence, and I lean against it, wanting to cry. Everything is such a mess.

I wipe my eyes with my arm.

"Stupid boy," Mr. Carter mutters. "You need to call your brother. I can't have you lying dead in front of my house."

The last thing I want to do is to call Darry. I can't let him see me like this, I need a shower, a glass of water or two, I need... I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

"He's at work," I whisper.

"Well, don't just stand there. Come on." My leg gets another hit with his cane, and I wince, sure it got bruised. But somehow I manage to follow him inside, and it looks just like the first time I was in here, maybe even worse. He lets me sit on the only free chair in the kitchen, and to my surprise, he brings me a cup of water. I gulp it down, and he hands me another one.

"Don't think you can stay," he warns me. "And no touching my things."

I put the cup on the cluttered table, carefully. My head is still spinning but for another reason. I'm not sure what's happening. I know where I am, I'm not delusional, but this is... weird.

"Thanks," I say quietly.

"You need some meat on your bones. Don't he feed you anymore?" Mr. Carter mutters, turning to put a kettle on the stove. "But don't think I'll do it. It ain't my business."

I wrap my arms around my body, defensively, trying to cover my stomach. "Maybe I should go."

"The phone is in the bedroom. Go and call someone. But leave a quarter on the nightstand."

I do as he says. With the receiver in my hand I try to decide who to call to come and get me. Definitely not Darry. I realize my list of people is pretty short, but then I pick Two-Bit, hoping he will be home and not sleeping too hard. Turns out I'm lucky, and when he answers I tell him I sprained my ankle and he promises to come.

When I hang up I get another dizzy spell, and I sit down on the bed, hoping it won't count as 'touching his things.' Shit, maybe I'm starting to get sick or something. I feel exhausted, with nothing left in me.

I lift my head and then I see them. The photos. They stand on a bureau, one of a woman in maybe her forties, and a few with two boys, starting from a small age and stopping with them posing in uniforms. I frown, getting up to get a closer look. I always thought Mr. Carter didn't have a family, but this must be his wife and kids.

Then I see the dog tags and my heart splits in two.

* * *

 _It's been forever, again. So sorry. Hopefully you are still reading, hopefully you want to leave a review :)_

 _I will try and update my other story soon, too._

 _And, yeah, my spell checking program is giving me a little trouble, so sorry for any typos and of course, grammar mistakes!_


	9. It's Not About Him

**A/N - please read**

 _You will probably notice that this chapter have some similarities with Begonias' story "Shadow Stabbing." I will just assure you that this is a mere coincidence, since I wrote this before I read her chapter. I have PM'd her and everything is fine between us :) We just accidentally chose to write about the same thing in the same time._

 **Why We're Playing With Fire**

 **9\. It's Not About Him**

 _October, 1968_

It feels like I have waited forever when Two-Bit's car finally pulls up at the curb. I grab the railing to hoist myself up from the porch steps, my legs feeling like Bambi on ice as I walk over the lawn. Like I would slip and fall if I'm not careful where I put my feet.

"Hi," I say as I open the passenger door, trying not to show how exhausted I am. And I'm hoping the guilt and shame can't be read from my face, even if Two-Bit must know something is up by the way I avoid looking at him. The stolen dog tag feels heavy where it rests against my chest, hidden under the shirt, and I don't even dare to glance at Mr. Carter's house as I close the door after me.

 _I'm a thief._

The thought haunts me. I really didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean to take one of the dog tags and slip it around my neck, or at least, I didn't mean to keep it. But then I looked in Mr. Carter's mirror, and I saw what everyone else always have said that they see - how much I look like Soda, that you can tell we're brothers. I felt dizzy and nauseous as I clutched the dog tag so hard it made marks in my hand - a symbol of war. And death.

Because that's what it's for. If you die. Or are so badly hurt you can't tell anyone who you are. It's not me. Not yet. I know who I am, but I also know there can come a time when I wish I was someone else. And I don't know why, but the tag made me feel closer to Soda - he's someone else these days, I know that. He's not a soldier. He's playing theater. I need a connection, a _real_ connection, to keep him grounded to me. To us. So he will remember who he is. And I know it's not realistic, that holding the dog tag in my hand, wearing it around my neck, it's not going to make my thoughts reach him - but still. Maybe I need the hope that it's making a difference.

So I just walked out of the house, right past Mr. Carter, with my heart thuddering and the chain cold against my skin. And now I feel so bad, because the dog tag must have belonged to a son or a friend or a brother of his, and mean something since it was put where he always could find it, despite all the other things in his house.

Two-Bit says something I don't hear, forcing me out of my daze, and I know I need to look at him and smile.

"Don't tell Darry that I skipped school," I tell him, trying to make my voice sound happy and cheerful. The seriousness in his face makes me edgy, and I rub my sweaty hands against my knees, straining myself so I won't start to yell at him to _go_ , _go_ , _go_ , like a robber leaving the gas station with his designated driver. I just wait for the front door to open and Mr. Carter showing up, waving with his cane at me.

"Is this something Darry should know about?" Two-Bit is still looking at me weirdly.

"What? No. I just didn't feel like sittin' in class today. It's no big deal." I shrug my shoulders. "You know how it is."

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, then stills, like he has made a decision.

"You don't look so hot, Pony."

So that was it. He won't let this go.

"Well, I'm not a blonde, and not a girl, either," I try to joke, but it falls flat, and I cringe at how bad it sounds. And of course it doesn't wipe away that concerned expression from his face, just making it worse. "I'm just tired, is all," I say, not able to hold my fake smile anymore. "Don't make a big deal out of it, okay? I know I messed up."

"Ponyboy-"

"Just drive. I really want to go home."

He turns the key, and the old car that seems to be held together only by rust and duct tape somehow sputters to life. I lean back and close my eyes, and before I know it he stops outside my house, killing the engine.

"Thanks," I mumble, tuggning at the handle to open the door. Maybe I should invite him in, but I'm not sure I can handle any company right now. I need to be alone.

"Hey," Two-Bit says just as I have climbed out. I hold myself up by placing my hand at the roof, leaning forward to peer into the car. "Make sure to put some ice on that ankle," he says, with just the right tone in his voice so I will know that he caught my lie.

I feel myself blushing, but I don't apologize.

"Talk to Darry, Pony. I think you need it."

I'm so tired my eyes are itching. My empty stomach is screaming. It feels like I'm going to faint again any minute now. But I just let go of the roof and take a step back, shaking my head.

"I have nothing to tell him."

xXx

I'm surprised to find Darry sitting in the living room when I come home from school the next day.

"You home already?" I ask, shrugging off my backpack. Then the words stop in my throat, because he wouldn't be here, not this time of the day if everything was all right.

"What happened?" I can't hide the fear in my voice. My pulse is going faster, and then it hits me hard - _Soda! Something happened to Soda_.

"Sit down, Pony," Darry says, his voice real quiet, but I back away, starting to shake my head widely, to stop him from telling me.

"No!" I choke out. "No, Darry. _No_ -"

"It's not about Soda!" he hurries to say as he gets up on his feet, finally seeming to understand what this looks like. "It's not about him, Pony."

I hear what he's saying, but my mind is one step behind. I close my eyes at all the images turning up in my brain - a battle field, Soda's blood seeping into the ground, his body crumpled, military men showing up at our door, his dog tags in hand, to tell us...

"Ponyboy," Darry says again. "It's not about _him_!"

I take a deep breath. Try to force the images away, not sure that I believe him.

"I promise!"

"Okay." But my heart doesn't slow down. Maybe it was just a second I thought the worst, but that feeling... I shiver, realizing I wouldn't be able to live with it. Not for the rest of my life. I take another breath, trying to calm myself. Soda is okay. As far as we know, he's okay. It's not about him today.

"Don't scare me like that," I say as soon as I think I can talk normally again. "Why are you home now, anyway? Don't you have work?" I put my backpack on the floor and take off my jacket, my hands still shaking as I pull down the zipper.

"We need to talk, Pony."

The tone in his voice makes me scared again, but a different kind. "About what?" I stand still just inside the door, thinking of bursting out through it, to run away from this.

"Is it about school? 'Cause I'm doin' okay," I lie.

"It's not that. Come, I want to show you something." He motions at me with his hand, and I hesitate at first, but then follow him warily down the hallway. He takes me to the bathroom, making me go in first, blocking the door with his body.

"I bought a scale,"he tells me, his voice tense. And then I see it, standing there on the floor, right under the sink. We have never owned a scale before. Never. Not even Mom used one. Why would she? Why would any of us?

"I want you to weight yourself," Darry says, and I feel like a caged animal, like the walls are closing in.

"I don't want to." I turn to him. "I need to do my homework now."

Darry puts his hands against the opposite doorposts, straightening his back. "I'm serious."

I cross my arms in front of me, trying to look like I'm not about to lose it. "Lay off, Darry. Let me out."

"Look at yourself! Look in the mirror!" To my surprise he has tears in his eyes. "Do you eat anything these days, Ponyboy? Huh? It's always 'I have already eaten' whenever I ask! But I don't see much food disapperaring from the fridge when you are home alone."

There are black edges around my vision now, a buzz in my ears. "Of course I eat!" I snap at him. "I just... I go to the Dairy Queen."

"Then you wouldn't have a problem stepping up on the scale! If you haven't been losing weight, show me!"

I can't move.

"I haven't," I say, and I know he can hear the thickness in my voice, how close I am to start crying. Because I know. It's not that I haven't noticed how my jeans are slipping down my hips now, or don't remember that I had to use my switchblade to cut another hole in my belt, two times now. Or not know that if I let my fingers curl around my wrist, I would feel how my thumb overlaps my forefinger more than before.

Darry shakes his head, sad or disappointed. "I don't get why you're doing this," he says, his voice raw. "It's enough worrying about Soda. I told you when he left that-"

"Stop!" I warn him, but he goes on.

"I told you that I can't worry about you, too. I can't do it, Pony. I don't know what to do."

"Maybe you could have been home a little more," I say. "You're never _here_!"

"Maybe I didn't think you needed a baby sitter," he says harshly, and when I flinch, he does too, and grimaces. Rubbing a hand over his face, he mumbles, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"I need Soda," I whisper, hastily wiping away a tear. "I want him back."

"You want to see Soda again?" Darry pauses, and suddenly he looks so helpless. "Then don't... don't kill yourself, Pony."

* * *

 _I know, I'm the worst at update these days... is there anyone still reading?_


	10. We Shouldn't Lie All the Time

**Why We're Playing With Fire**

 **10\. We Shouldn't Lie All the Time**

His words shake me, making my blood run cold. _Kill myself_?

He's wrong. He has never been more wrong, and I want to tell him that, but somehow the words get stuck when I try to say them. I know, if I told him about the dizzy spells I've had since summer, and how I fainted yesterday, found myself lying on the curb, he would probably freak out even more. But it's not like this is something serious. It's not like cancer, or car crashes, or fires.

Or war. We're not in a war. I'm not close to dying.

I'm not standing on some stupid bridge.

"I'm not... doing that," I tell him, but it feels like a lie as I step as far away as I can from the scale in our small bathroom, still trapped inside it by Darry's body. "I didn't do this on purpose. It just happened."

"You just happened to stop eating? You just _happened_ to lose so much weight you couldn't even walk home from a few blocks away?"

"I run track, Darry! Of course I can walk home."

"You didn't think Two-Bit would tell me? I know he drove you home yesterday."

I cross my arms in front of me, trying a hard stare. "Maybe I just wanted company?" I snap. "I'm allowed to hang out with friends, aren't I?"

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not!"

"Maybe if you had talked to me, I would have known about this. I could have helped you, but you always clam up. You don't listen! You ask me to be here, but when I am, you pushes me away. You always only talked to Soda, and when he ain't here, no one else is good enough for you."

There is a hint of jealousy in his voice, and I can't look at him. I hang my head, knowing he's right. I suddenly have a hard time to breathe, because I know, deep inside, that things had been different if Darry was the one being drafted. I would rather have him in Vietnam than Soda. And it's so wrong of me, forbidden thoughts I haven't even dared to confess to myself that I have been thinking. It's not that I want Darry to go to war, it's not that at all, I just - I just don't want it to be Soda. It shouldn't be him. And I hate myself thinking anyone would have been better than him. Even my other brother. Even me.

"And now... I don't know what you've been doing, Pony. But it stops now, okay? It stops today! So you better step up on that scale and show me how bad it is. And then we'll deal with it."

xXx

He has been silent ever since the scale showed the verdict. He stared at it and then just left the bathroom, and I stepped down from the scale with shaky legs, shocked by the low numbers. I sat down on the closed toilet lid, biting my nails, wondering what would happen now, trying to think, to come up with an excuse for it being this bad. What if I'm sick for real? But I know that's not it. You can't go days without dinner and only taking nibbles of sandwiches or apples without starving yourself.

But I haven't been starving myself. It's not the weight that is the problem. I don't _not_ eat because I want to lose pounds, I don't feel fat, and even if I did, I wouldn't care. So I don't really know what has happened to me.

I put my hands down and clamped them between my knees. I could feel the bones. And then he came back, jingling with his keys, telling me to get up and out. I should have said no, but I didn't have anything left in me to fight him, and now we're sitting in the truck, him behind the wheel and not talking.

"Where are we going?" I ask him in a small voice. _Not the hospital_ I beg silently, checking the signs every time he turns around a corner, because he doesn't answer me.

When he finally parks it's outside the grocery store. The big one. I glance at him and then out the windshield, and I should feel relieved. I don't, though. Because he still doesn't say a word as he opens the door for me, and he doesn't look back to make sure I follow him as we head inside, walking so fast I have a hard time to catch up. He takes a cart and starts walking down the aisle, grabbing things randomly it seems like, not looking at the prices as he usually always does, just tosses whatever into the cart.

"Toast for breakfast?" he says suddenly, stopping so abruptly I almost walk into him. "Oat meal? Cereal?"

"I..."

"What do you want for dinner? You want chicken? Hamburgers? Lasagna?"

I want to cry. But we're in the middle of the store, lots of people around. And I can't read Darry's face right now - is he angry? Worried? I lift my hand to feel the dog tag under my shirt again, like I do every day I feel anxious.

"Pony," Darry says, strained. "Tell me what you want to eat."

"I don't..."

"You're down to 110 pounds. We need to get the numbers up. And to do that, we're going to buy food, and we're going home to make dinner, and you are going to sit down and eat everything on your goddamn plate." He's talking louder for every word that comes out, almost yelling the last ones. It's like he doesn't care that other customers are staring at us.

I have to swallow before answering him, but even I can hear the lump in my throat. "I want to do that, but-"

"But what? But _nothing,_ Pony. I tell you, this is what will happen. You will eat every meal with me from now on. And if I ain't home, I will have Two-Bit to sit with you. And don't think for a second I won't do it." He grabs the cart again, and I can't do anything but follow him.

xXx

When we're home again, Darry tells me to make mashed potatoes while he prepares the chicken. I stand by the sink with the peeler in my hand, working slowly, trying to feel hungry. Trying to feel like I can do this. Because food is not the problem, so it shouldn't be a problem, right?

"You remember when Johnny and Dally passed away?" Darry says suddenly, and I stop with the peeler midway. "You wouldn't eat. Remember that? You told us everything tasted like baloney."

"I'm just trying to figure this out," Darry says when I don't answer. He walks up beside me to grab the salt from the shelf. "If we don't, I will have to make an appointment with our doctor."

"I told you I'm going to eat," I mumble. Darry places a hand at my side, and I cringe, wondering if he's trying to feel my ribs, but he just nudges me to move so he can open the oven and put the chicken inside.

"You've only peeled two potatoes?" He stares over my shoulder. Then he sighs, taking the peeler from my hand. "Let me do it."

Since Darry took over the duties in the kitchen, I go to my room. I grab a paper and a pen, sitting down by my desk. Maybe it's the wrong time to write a letter to Soda when I feel so drained, so out of control. I try to do it once a week, even if he hardly writes me back, and when he does all I get are these short notes about the weather, the food and his friends. He never tells me anything about the war. He never tells me if he eats all right, if he's scared of dying, if he misses me. He never tells me about the bad things, how he's feeling, if he's crying at night or having nightmares. If he's hurt.

But I'm not better, am I? I write to him about school, that my grades are good even if they aren't. I write that I run track even if I doesn't anymore. I write that I hang out with my friends, even if the only ones I see are Two-Bit and Steve when they come around. Suddenly I get so mad at myself, because Darry is right. I don't want to talk to anyone but Soda, but what we're saying to each other is not worth anything when all we do are telling lies.

And we shouldn't lie all the time. We should tell the truth.

xXx

 _Hi Soda._

 _I wish you could stop pretending. I know you're not okay. None of us are. I wish this war to be over so you can come home. I wish you were home. I wish you didn't have to go at all. I wish you would tell me all about it so I know. I'm not scared to know. I'm scared to not know. I'm scared you don't dare to tell me anything._

 _I don't want to hear about your mosquito bites and the rain and what the rice tastes like. I don't know what you write to Darry because he never shows me his letters, and I don't go behind his back and read them. Maybe I should, if you can't be honest with me._

 _I'm trying to be honest to you but it's hard. I wear the dog tag and pretend it helps you. But it doesn't. It doesn't help me either, and Darry tries and tries but I think he does it the wrong way. He says I don't talk to him, only to you. But that's not right, either, because we don't talk to each other about what's important. We need to start doing that. I want you to tell me everything. And then I'll tell you everything, too._

 _Dinner is ready soon and we're going to eat. I'm going to eat all of it and you are going to come home. That's how it needs to be._

 _Love Pony._

* * *

 _Thank you so much for still reading this story! Your support means everything to me :)_


	11. I Knew You Couldn't Do It

**Why We're Playing With Fire**

 **11\. I Knew You Couldn't Do It**

The clock on the wall ticks louder than usual. Or maybe we're just quieter than we usually are. I know Darry hasn't let it go - but he thinks I just need to listen to him and do what he says, and then everything will be fine again. Because his solutions are always clean, always perfect in theory.

 _Eat._

I count the seconds, but have to start over every time his knife cuts against his plate, distracting me. I don't know how long time that has passed. A lifetime. It feels like I have been sitting on this chair for days, listening to the clock, staring at the food, just waiting for it to disappear without me doing anything about it. The weird things is that I didn't think of this as a problem before. It wasn't when I was alone. I didn't feel anything special when I looked at food, I just didn't eat it. But now, just because Darry brought it up, it has become so much bigger, something I have to figure out even if I don't want to. He made it to a problem.

 _Eat._

 _Come on._

 _Eat._

I dig my fork into the mashed potatoes - it's soft and fluffy, almost perfect. No bites in it, just the way I like it. The way Soda never managed to make it, too impatient to cook the potatoes long enough for them to fall to pieces. But Darry knows how to do it.

 _Eat._

I try to not look at him. To see that he's almost finished and I haven't even started. I'm an idiot - I should have eaten while he did, because once he's done, he will start to pay me full attention. Ask me why I haven't touched my food. And I wouldn't be able to tell him why, because I know he wouldn't understand. Deep down I know this is bad - the scale told me so, my new belt holes, how tired I always am. That I fainted. But then there is this _feeling_... the good feeling that makes me able to shut up the voice telling me that I have no control over anything, because I do have control over _something._ And I was doing it good, too. I was the one in charge for once.

 _Come on._

 _Eat._

I try to focus on my task. I lift my fork and lick on it, and it tastes so good, potato and butter and black pepper, but I can't do it. I can't. I don't want to. And it makes me feel strong.

 _I can have control._

I carefully place the fork on the table next to my plate.

"Pony."

"What?" I mumble, knowing all too well what he will say.

"Eat up."

I don't move, trying to decide how much I will dare to fight him. "Darry-"

"No. Eat up." He leans over the table, picks up my fork and holds it out for me. "Everything on the plate, Pony. That was our deal."

I meet his eyes, expecting him to be angry. But he's not. The way he looks at me is not showing anger, it shows something else. It's the same way he looked at Soda when he drove him to the bus station that day I don't want to think about. And I know he's afraid.

I can't fight him. Not today. So I take the fork from his hand, pierce a piece of chicken and put it in my mouth. Chew and swallow. Chew and swallow. I do it over and over, until my plate is clean and Darry is satisfied, and my stomach rolls and rumbles and the whispering voice is coming back, mocking me -

 _I knew you couldn't do it._

xXx

Afterwards, I lace on my shoes. It's a hard task, because my hands are shaking.

"What are you doing?" Darry comes out of the kitchen, holding a dish rag, seeming to not notice how it drips onto the floor. "You are not going out to run, Pony."

"I'm not. I'm going for a walk. I have to post a letter."

"I can go with you-"

"Jesus, Darry," I snap, my stomach ache and the need to get out of here urging me on. "It's just a few blocks away!"

He gives me a hard stare, and I start to believe he won't even let me leave the house, but then he gives me a short nod. "Five minues. Just there and back, okay? And I will be able to tell if you have been running, so don't even think about it."

I don't answer him, just pick up the letter from the floor and head out the door. I don't take my jacket and the wind is chilly, but even though I know Darry can't see me from the kitchen I don't speed up. I can't run when feeling like this anyway.

I post the letter before I can change my mind. But just as it slides down and the hatch closes, it's just what I do. I hurry to open the mailbox again, but the slot is of course too narrow for my hand. I can't reach the letter, can't pick it up, can't make it undone. I bang my fist against the surface, like that would help. It just makes my knuckles sore.

I want to kick myself at my stupidity, why did I have to write the letter in the first place, but instead I suddenly double over as it feels like someone just stabbed a knife into my stomach. I moan as the knife twists itself, and I stagger a few steps forward to throw up in the bushes, gagging and spitting while my head is spinning.

I cough when I'm done, tears and snot running as I rip off a few leaves to wipe my face. _Shit._ I spit again, trying to get rid of the taste of vomit as I sink down to sit on my heels, covering my mouth with my hands. I didn't mean for that to happen! I don't know why it did, if I am sick or just ate too much too fast. What I do know is that I can't tell Darry about it because he would freak out even more than he already has. Even more than I feel like doing.

I'm two minutes late when I come home again. Darry doesn't say anything about it. He's on the phone, asking whoever it is on the other side to come to our house tomorrow, to watch me eat when he's at work.

I don't even look at him as I walk past him to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

xXx

 _November, 1968_

 _I don't know how the letters always manage to find us, no matter where we are. But I don't think much about it, just happily place my thumb under the flap of the envelope that Glenn just threw into my lap and rip it open, grinning big, 'cause I love getting news from home. Both love it and hate it, actually, but mostly love it._

 _Only I don't smile anymore when I have read it to the end. I rake a hand over my newly shaven head, confused and a hell of a lot scared. Does Darry know about this? I turn the page, but nothing is written on the other side, and there ain't any note from him left in the envelope when I check._

 _"Hey, Curtis, drop the love letter and come over," Little Ben shouts. The guys sit on rickety stools by an even more rickety table, trying to play poker with Morris' thumbed cards. It can't really be called a game, 'cause there ain't no problem to memorize which card is worn this way or that, knowing what hands the other players have just by looking at them, but it's something to do to pass the time while we're back in camp._

 _Ignoring the guys, my eyes is drawn back to Pony's words. Then I stand up. Clutch the letter hard._

 _I need to go home. The thought has never been stronger before._

 _I have always, always been there for my baby brother. And that I'm here and he's there, and he needs me and I can't go, it makes me go crazy. I stumble to my sleeping area, dig out my backpack and rifle through it, looking for a piece of paper, a pen. Can't find none, I turn my head and look around like they would magically turn up on the floor, just 'cause I need them. But there ain't nothing magical about this place._

 _I sit back on my heels. Before I got here I thought there are only two ways back - either you do your time and survive, or you go home in a coffin. But I've seen guys being loaded into copters, missing an arm, a leg or both, or burned to no recognition. And of course they ain't coming back here, once they have gotten patched up in the states._

 _I drag a deep breath. Fuck the calm down, Soda! I can't hurt myself on purpose. Not that way. Not that bad. Pony wrote he needs the truth, but no fucking way I'm gonna give it to him. Not in a letter and definitely not for real._

 _I walk out again, into bright sunlight, and the guys are still playing but looking at me funny. "Someone gotta paper and a pen?" I ask._

 _"Trouble with the girlfriend at home?" It's Little Ben again. Gotten his name 'cause he's so big, he squints at me, grinning too wide._

 _"Shut up," I say. "Got it or what?"_

 _"Easy, man." Morris drops a card on the table. Five of spades, I can tell even if the backside is up. "I have some stuff in my bag, just put everything back after you done lookin', all right?"_

 _I turn on my heel, but once I have found the stuff and sit down onto the floor, I have no idea what to write. My head is empty. I curse to myself and bite at the edge of the pen, reading Pony's letter again. He sounds desperate, and I picture him sitting in the couch at home after he found out I was drafted, confused and scared, shaking his head when I told him it was real and not the nightmare he wanted it to be. He mumbled that it was. I know he didn't mean for me to hear it, but I did._

 _And this letter, it feels like that. Like he whispers something he doesn't want me to hear, not really. I don't know what's wrong, but I need to figure it out. And somehow fix it._

xXx

 _Darry._

 _Got a letter from Ponyboy. I don't know what's up at home but I think you should talk to him. You can do that, yeah? Tell him I'm fine. I don't think he is and he wrote something about wearing a dog tag? And he talked about honesty and that I don't tell him things and I ain't sure what to do. But talk to him. And write me back 'cause it's hard worry about him from here._

 _Soda_

* * *

 _Thank you so much for reading!_


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